when the last line is written
when the last rhyme is pulled from the bowels of that…
place
when the brain burn and the message is to my liking for now
i will return to the folded arms comfort of night
pick out a star and float to it
sleep

unlike the wicked warmth of tequila
or *******'s almost passive attempts to own me
the word is my true addiction
the insidious hold it has
drawing me in
calling to me every waking moment
i fear the whispers will not end in death
and i shall face an eternity living the nightmare
of an incomplete batch of words
that hold the key to my missing life